It is written as a series of one-sided conversations, where the reader is the other half of the conversation. Listening to the protagonist, rarely questioned by the protagonist. A simple idea, incredibly difficult to write. I’ve never read a book written using this technique.

What is ‘The fall’? Early on the protagonist talks of his fall from being a prestigious and effective Paris lawyer to hanging around in fog-ridden Amsterdam, drinking with strangers in bars. This tracks the distance fallen, but not the actual fall. The book describes the fall, the ideas and insights bring the protagonist to Amsterdam bars.

I’m planning to read the book again because I suspect that I’ve missed many of the subtleties that it contains. At the moment, I preferred “The Outsider“. I suspect “The fall” might turn out to be an acquired taste. I’ll re-read it with the aid of some matured whiskey….

I found Albert Camus’s ‘The outsider” profoundly disturbing. In just under 115 pages it moves the reader from a funeral through a killing to legal conviction and sentencing with straightforward and gripping prose. The protagonist appears to lack pretention. He lives with an uncomplicated world view, within a world that requires he play a role, demostrates conformity to social complexity.

Recommended for people that find human behaviour fascinating at both human and societal levels.

‘The Outsider’ appears to be one of those books that teenagers are encouraged to study – there are plenty of reviews online. Somehow my teenage self missed this book, making do with ‘The catcher in the rye’, ‘To kill a mockingbird‘ and slighly later with ‘On the road‘

I found the book disturbing because it was so easy to identify with the protagonist, to be him. To feel his pleasure, pain, passage of time and the way others criticise any lack of socially acceptable expression of strong emotions.

I picked up my copy from Reading town’s Oxfam, this 2nd hand copy came littered with the study notes of someone who read the book in a radically different way from me. I found the notes almost as disturbing as the book itself. The notes accuse the protagonist of being unemotional, unfeeling. Yet I read him as experiencing a wide range of normal feelings described in short sentences, using very physical descriptions.

The idea came up at the time when I was completely bereft of ideas. I’d been working on my own music for a while and was quite lost, actually. And I really appreciated someone coming along and saying, “Here’s a specific problem — solve it.”

The thing from the agency said, “We want a piece of music that is inspiring, universal, blah- blah, da-da-da, optimistic, futuristic, sentimental, emotional,” this whole list of adjectives, and then at the bottom it said “and it must be 31/4 seconds long.”

I thought this was so funny and an amazing thought to actually try to make a little piece of music. It’s like making a tiny little jewel.

In fact, I made 84 pieces. I got completely into this world of tiny, tiny little pieces of music. I was so sensitive to microseconds at the end of this that it really broke a logjam in my own work. Then when I’d finished that and I went back to working with pieces that were like three minutes long, it seemed like oceans of time.

According to one obscure website, in Wiccan symbology a female dog is a symbol of the goddess, the bitch is a goddess, subserviant to no-one. Black represents things that are mysterious and unknown, change, it promises unlimited potential. The Black dog represents all possibilities.

Watching American Gigolo for the first time, when it was released, was fascinating. Mainly because of the reversal of commonly portrayed role gender roles. A man as prostitue, beauty and clothes obsessed, victim of clever people, concerned with making other people happy. The camerawork was also extremely good.

Sharleen Spiteri is a beautiful woman. Conceptions of female beauty have changed dramatically since the 1990s. Few mainstream female pop-stars nowadays would have the imagination and pluck to dress in a way that doesn’t emphasize her sexuality.

Sometimes the everyday barrage of pressure to conform to gender-stereotype through jokes, advertisements, news, and everyday conversation, that re-affirm the female role as

trivial

survile

productised

dehumanised

gets me down

This sea shanty by the outstandingly talented ‘the Decemberists’ can lift my mood, let me sing and dance, let me hope for the some form of justice. Though in reality I doubt such a well established system of abuse as the Patriarchy has developed will change for the better in my lifetime, at the moment things seem to be getting worse

I used to have Microsoft Office 2003 installed on Neverland. I haven’t yet bothered putting it in the cupboard because I don’t have the patience to wait for 7 years worth of updates to install. Many of my files are word files, (.doc). When I tried to open them in the Microsoft Works Word processor it didn’t recognise their format, neither did wordpad.

Your average height, 5″5 ¾, English gal standing in the stalls at a gig (Pop concert) has to decide whether to crane her neck for a view or

DANCE her socks off

Given the bands were Squeeze and the Lightening Seeds the decsion was easy – I opted for sock abondonment. Whenever I glanced up and between the gently rocking plumpified bodies of the middle-aged couples afront I could see fabulous back-drops and light displays. Displays clearly designed to entertaining the heightedly-average person such as myself. Good show. It was.

During the interval I joined the logistic challenge of ordering beers by acting as part of the chain to pass them from the bar through the 10-person deep seemingly random crowd that was actually multiple orderly queues. I’d forgotten the subtle skills and social coordination necessary to purchase a round of drinks at a sell-out concert in a large venue. It was fun, I got to meet and talk to other people in the Queue about their journey’s to the gig, their past experiences of seeing the bands. It’s a friendly psuedo-muddle.

By lifting my arm into the air I gained a snapshot into what the world looks like for taller people and those average heighties who are prepared to wear ankle-threatening high heals. With only 6 inches difference in height the world would look so different.

The opening piece of the evening was Morrowfrom Gattaca (re-used as a ‘theme’ in the film Atonement). Mistaking the track for Departure, within minutes tears were streaming down my face.

wendy: I first fell in love with Nyman’s music in 1983 when I saw the Draughtsman contract

mumsie: I remember, you’ve been playing Nyman’s music to me ever since

As we talk I realise how each time I purchased a Michael Nyman album I would bring it to mum and dads then play it to mumsie, insisting that she listened. I remember her continuing to do the laundry, prepare dinner, vacuum the house, never seeming to take time out to focus on just listening.

Now, watching the Bournmouth Symphony Orchestra (BSO) perform pieces that I’d only previously heard. I noticed new things; how the lead Violin spoke to the lead Viola in Trysting fields, how the voices of different instruments came from different places. Listneing to music in the car, the instruments seem to be disembodied, the have no place to come from.

After the tuba’s and french horns had made some floor rocking contributions to ‘a watery death’:

mumsie: next to the Oboe’s, the tall thing that loops to the floor and back

wendy: woodwind?

mumsie: yes

Mumsie was pleased to recognise all the pieces. The closing scheduled piece, Memorial, was Nyman’s tribute to the victims of the 1985 Heysel stadium disaster. They decided to add a lightweight encore before letting us loose on the watery night streets of Bristol. Mum was pleased, evidently the BSO don’t normally do encores.

After 6 years together, he left in march 1995 while I struggled with the isolation imposed by an itchy depressing case of the chicken pox. A tough year. Tracey Thorn helped smooth the edges on the darker sad moments, taking them up to a normal sadness with her soothing song, Missing. 16 years later the radio plays Missing and I’m reminded that even though I no longer hear the screaming in my mind, sometimes my mind wanders past where we lived, and I miss you.

Everything But the Girl sang Missing

On the off-chance you still use the same email address I replied to your last email (2006). Your prompt, succint reply, with a large attachment of baffling technical IE8 jargon, quashed that missing feeling. It prompted cat-spooking, floor hugging, loud laughter. So typical of you to find something to apologise for as an opening sentence then quickly spring into politics, attitude, and rude words:

Sorry about the attachment. I was booted off line before I was able to send. I blame the government. Big society? Big arse, more like.

We’re still unsynchronised dancing to Stand. It’s good to know you’re still there, somewhere, being wonderful you…

Martin walked over to me and said: I couldn’t help watching you because you look so much like Patti Smith. I found the comparison very flattering, Patti is one of the few female celebrities that is beautfiul in her own right without reference to standard definitions of femininity.

At a time when I was beginning to question my value as an individual, Garbage, fronted by Shirley Manson, came racing to the rescue. Reminding me that I could push it and I had opinions. Liking Garbage was just one of my opinions. I saw them play live that autumn. Outstanding.

Including a tribute to the Beach boys ‘Don’t worry baby’ this video won buckets of awards…

Garbage sang Push it (1998)

With lyrics as a tribute to one of Shirley Manson’s hero’s, Chrissie Hynde’s, singing on the Pretender’s ‘talk of the town’, this video is a sci fi style arial dogfight fight…

I’m on a roll with the making of changes. I’ve moved my current and credit accounts to the Co-op bank. Hoorah! I love their values and helpful staff. I leave NatWest with a fabulous sense of relief and freedom.

In 1982 a girl I’d been to school with opened my Natwest Bank account in my local village. As one of the less than 10% of people that went to University I was a valued customer, a potential high earner. They promised me a free £5 for opening an account with them. One third of the cost of a pair of Levi 501s (£14.99).

In the 1980’s Natwest was small and friendly, my whole family and most of the village either banked or worked there. Natwest saw me through my BSc, PhD, my first job, first car, and first mortgage. Some bumps, but generally they were supportive and I stuck with them. In 1992 I lost my job. I wrote to Natwest to let them know (a condition of the mortgage). They told me that they were going to put my house on the market and charge me for a valuation and sales services. I had not defaulted on my mortgage. I had sufficient savings to live on and pay my mortgage for months and they could see that by looking at my accounts. This was an outragoeusly insensitive and unsupportive act. Also, they were not legally allowed to do this, this was bullying! I replied telling them that they did not have my permission to spend my money on selling my home when I had not broken the conditions of the mortgage agreement. I got a job, changed cities, changed home, changed mortage provider.

Things really spiralled downhill in the naughties. After they were purchased by RBS the service standard nose-dove into corporate solelessness and ignorant, if cheerful, front of house staff. Luckily I missed experiencing the gradual decay because I was living and primarily banking in the USA. Since returning to the UK they’ve actualy reduced me to tears twice, by aggressively trying to sell me services.

Today they treated me with their normal intrusive and condescending rudeness. AaarggGHH. The last straw. I calmly asked the informations desk for advice on the most efficient and effective way close all my acounts with them. It felt good to stride out of the shop upright, hanky still in my pocket, knowing that I wont be going back.

My brother proudly shows me his work bench, chisel sets and other thoughtfully organised tools. He’s recently cleared a space in the garage so he can make things. He’s always liked making things. This hobby was temporarily interrupted by having a job selling electronic stuff in Asian countries to make big money. Now he’s changed jobs, downgraded his income in favour of having time to do stuff he loves. On a budget.

This is my first guitar, it’s English Oak, its not common to use Oak to make Guitars, it is a bit heavy

I’m now in full audience mode. Something my father and brother have taught me to do well. I’m mainly here to make appreciative noises and ask questions that help them tell their stories. I like the role, its fun to watch people talk about the things they love, dad and his Pylons, Bros and his making things.

This is the first Guitar he’s made from scratch. He looked less happy when he realised he wouldn’t be able to make a living by making guitars because it was so time consuming. I remember the first (Bass) guitar he renovated in his teens and sold for a profit over the purchase price and materials. Not profit on the labour.

His home has always been full of guitars he’s bought, renovated or upgraded. His garden shed is a production studio for local bands, often full of people playing his instruments.

OMD quickly earned a favoured position in my teenage heart when I first heard Electricity. This song reminds me of home, of warmth and comfort. Most of all reminds me of Dad getting excited about Pylons, happily ethusing. His excitement is contagious.

Dad started work for an electricity supply company in the early 1950’s. Exciting times for an Engineer specialising in supplying electricity to the UK. Building infrastructure, planning routes to lay cables and overhead lines. Dad is still passionate about the details of the tools of his trade. He has photograph albums dedicated to Pylons.

He’s recently returned from a trip to China. He treated us to the holiday photo’s on the family TV. Amongst the photographs of temples, rivers, mountains, village streets were numerous photographs of pylons.

Whenever I see a Pylon, transformer, dam, or insulator I think fondly of Dad. How his face lights up and he starts talking about what’s interesting about this particular thing, its age, its construction process, its location or ability to withstand high winds.

Not only is his excitment contagious,

I now find myself taking photographs of Pylons whenever I go on holiday.

As a 14 year old I found this song really cheerful and bouncy. I still find it engagingly bouncy and will occassionally pogo around my front room and garden singing the chorus. The ability to sing repetitive lines, badly while bouncing in the privacy of my own home has always been important to me. It’s a fettish that my parents gladly indulged. They sniggered. Now the song features in a traditional ‘bread’ advertisement, prompting bouncing-breaks during advertsing breaks, unexpected bouncing is fabulous.

Insanity even. Lots of strangeness going on in and around the Wendy House this week, last week and next week. Like the volcanic ash it sweeps in and out with the prevailing winds.

Based on today’s experience I suspect I’ll be unable to refrain from blogging until June. Though I can’t quite find the words to describe the prevailing winds on planet wendy. So I find myself thinking of escaping into a new hat, of the native American Iroquai, of moving furniture

crouching in the back of a black cab, I’d volunteered to hide from the cab dirver so that all 6 of us could travel together and share the cost.

Kaff: I don’t like wendy’s hair, its thick with hairspray, stiff and sticky

Kaff leant forward and grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head toward her sharp knees and pushing tears from my eyes. I watched my tears splash on her expensive Italian buckskin suede shoes then silently added a good dose of flemmy gob to the mix.